If I Were, If I Weren't
by Dreaming of Everything
Summary: Life's a bit confusing, and notlife is even more confusing, and really, Demyx thinks everyone might just be plain wrong, himself included. Introspective Demyxcentered completed oneshot.


**If I Were, If I Weren't**

By Dreaming of Everything

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Kingdom Hearts—in any of its various incarnations—or anything relating to it. I also haven't written the poem "Nobody," which is by Tom Sleigh; it's an absolutely wonderful piece and I highly recommend it, although I'm afraid the rest of it is less topical to KH than the bit I used is.

**Author's Notes:** My first and probably last foray into KH-fic territory. I hope y'all like it! Please read and review!

Note: Demyx PoV.

oOoOoOo

"…_and not  
someone other who afflicts her like a stranger  
hiding in her bedroom, whispering with affable,  
red-faced jocularity that if you're nobody  
and nobody's tormenting you then why do you cry out?"_

_--"__Nobody" by Tom Sleigh_

oOoOoOo

He was nobody, a Nobody. Nothing.

It was funny. He didn't feel particularly heartless. True, there was nothing beating in his chest, where the steady thump of life had been (and he hadn't noticed that you could feel it, hear it's constant contractions humming through your blood, until it had gone) but he still had emotions. He still _felt_.

He had been assured that they weren't real emotions. What made them real, then? What was the difference between imagined joy and real joy? It felt the same to him. Loneliness hurt like it always had, only more, because now he was even more alone, all the time.

It hurt when he was reminded of what he was, maybe that hurt most of all—and it _shouldn't_, because he shouldn't be able to feel at all.

He hurt because he could not feel which meant he could so he shouldn't hurt at all, because there was nothing to hurt because of, since it couldn't be real—he had disproved it by hurting but that meant that he wouldn't hurt, which meant he might not be able to feel. He might not exist. Maybe he was being lied to, or they were just _wrong_, or he was an exception. An out-of-the-ordinary freak occurrence.

Or maybe he was just crazy.

And what was a heart, really? A lump of blood and muscle and blind, thoughtless action. It wasn't all that much, really—even though some things were less enjoyable than they had been—laughing at stupid jokes, getting even. He dreamt that one day he'd wake up without the joy of music; that he wouldn't want to play his sitar, or sing, or dance.

That scared him most of all, even more than how killing people is getting easier—that was monstrous, but it could still be a _human_ kind of evil.

He wants to hate them all, Organization XIII, for what they are and for what he is, but he can't. He's never been good at really _hating_ people, but now he can't help but wonder—is it just who he is, or is it because he can't feel at all, anymore, and he's imaging what he (thinks he) does feel and it's just not strong enough to hate, or that the emotions are slowly draining out of him, the vestiges of his humanity (because he _knows_ he's not human anymore, even if he thinks he feels,) or that he can't feel (or even remember to feel) anything he hasn't already felt.

He over-analyzes everything, he knows, some twisted sort of hypochondriac, because he _doesn't know_, and nothing is worse than that. Is he just not feeling things strongly today because he's tired or _whatever_, or is that cotton-batting feeling because he's losing the ability to care altogether?

He wants to throw himself head-first into everything he can, because it might go away, and in the meantime he makes himself believe, as fully and desperately and deeply as possible, that what he was told was _wrong, it has to be wrong_.

And it must be true feeling, true emotion, because he's never wanted anything like he wants to want, to feel. Or maybe that's just the craving for life, for existence, that Heartless and Nobodies have.

Maybe he's crazy.

But no—they have to be wrong, _they have to be wrong_.

And he cannot prove it either way, so he doesn't bother to, and just chooses to believe, because he has to.

And so he must feel. He has to. There is no other option, though there is still doubt—what if he's wrong? _He can't be wrong, so he isn't_.

Why does it matter? It shouldn't bother him like this. And why doesn't it matter to him more than it does? He doesn't know who to listen to anymore, even when nobody's really talking.

He really does want to feel, after all. If he can't be human, he can have joy and sorrow and anger and loneliness, even if loneliness has become a lot lonelier than he thought it could, and even though it _hurts_ such a cruel and damnable lot. So he must feel, because he feels that. At least, he thinks he does.

Perception, he's decided, is just as good as reality, and maybe better.

He thinks he feels, so he knows he does, even if some days he's not sure if he does, and some days he thinks its fading—he doesn't want to think about that, and his perceptions of it.

And it doesn't matter, really. There's that consolation. He'll do what he's told to, regardless, and that's as human as it is Nobody. There's always that.

He will go on regardless, even if he wakes up not caring, one morning. And that might just be him, him _moving on_, or something, finding some other interest, maybe. Because it might happen, but he doesn't want to lose feeling. He doesn't want to be nothing, not really, and that's part of it. He really doesn't want to be alone, and not caring would cut him off more completely and utterly than anything else, except maybe death, and he just doesn't know about that—

He cares, and so he's connected. For now, at least.

He wants to care, at least, and he wants to be real, to be _something_, as stupid as it sounds, since he knows he's nothing and nobody and Nobody. He doesn't want to be alone, and he will be more alone even than he is now if he stops feeling. That scares him more than losing music—and really, since he fights with it, he won't ever really _stop_ playing it, after all. There's that; even if the joy goes, he will keep his sitar and play with it and maybe someone else will still enjoy it, even if he's killing them, or their comrades, or their family, with it at the time. There's that. He won't be _totally_ alone, and he won't care if he is.

He's frightened, but he's always frightened. Always has been. Now, he just has a reason.

But he does care, right? And he cared yesterday. He thinks he'll care tomorrow. He'll live as much as he can, until he can't anymore. Until the tomorrow when he won't feel stops mattering, whether it's because it won't come, or if he just doesn't care that it will anymore.

Until tomorrow, then. He can live, and he can lie to himself that long.

--End--


End file.
